Broken Glass
by Robin Sparrow
Summary: A quick one-shot featuring Ben Linus and Annie, taking place in Dharmaville shortly before the Purge.


It's been awhile, eh? And this is totally NOT what you were waiting for (provided you were waiting for anything at all at this point, lol)... I know. I've just been - distracted. Between school, the literary/art magazine I'm on the staff of, and (of course) LOST... I've been kinda busy and NOT working on the fanfiction I might have been working on (hell, I haven't even been working on my original fiction works properly). But I AM on spring break now - who knows, maybe I will be able to post in AWE (doubtful, but possible). Either way, this is just to let you all know that I'm not dead... and that I am still completely and irrevocably (and overenthusiastically, perhaps) addicted to LOST!!!

**A/N**: This one-shot takes place in Dharmaville shortly before the Purge. And the glass ballerina in this story has absolutely NOTHING to do with Sun, Jin, or the glass figurine in the episode called "The Glass Ballerina." The only reason I chose that particular object was because (a) when I started this, I didn't remember what the episode was about, just that it was called that, and (b) I like that particular image for this story. So yeah. Deal with it. ;)

**Disclaimer**: I own nothing. Neither character belongs to me... and if you don't remember Annie, go back and watch episode 3x20, "The Man Behind the Curtain." :P

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**Broken Glass**

She was woken by a sparkling light fluttering across her face, glinting softly prismatic as it touched upon her cheeks, her brow, and finally her eyelids, nudging her awake. She opened her eyes to a darkened room, surprised to see so little of the morning light, and found the sole cause of her awakening dangling prettily from the ceiling, shining in the solitary sliver of morning that had managed to slip past the curtains. It was a mobile, made of shards of glass that had once taken the form of a ballerina. It had nearly broken her heart to see it smashed, and, able to neither repair it nor throw it away, she'd turned it into something else, something that had turned out to be just as beautiful.

She watched it sway ever so slightly, each sliver of glass turning at a different pace, moving under the influence of its own personal draft. Each piece was affected by the light differently; some seemed to catch it, others seemed simply to cast it back out, and a few – just a few – seemed to actually glow, as if they were creating the light themselves. Her favorite was the smallest piece; its shape was the most irregular, but when the light hit it just right, it became pure, fragmented color, reflecting back every hue in the spectrum, and not a single one in the proper order.

She ran a hand through her smooth, sleep-mussed locks, pushing strands of auburn out of her emerald eyes as she sat up a little, taking care not to rouse the man next to her. She wanted to wake him, but just being able to find that he was still with her in the mornings had become so rare that she was loath to risk losing him to yet another busy day. Even asleep, she would rather he spend the day by her side. So she rolled over to face him, propping herself up on one slim elbow, and watched him sleep.

Ben dreaming was so different from Ben awake. Slumber erased the lines that hard times and a harder fate had etched into his face, and the cruelty that sometimes crept into his smile was absent from his mouth. His closed eyes betrayed nothing of the troubles and shadows she spied when they were open, and his slow, steady breathing was more comforting than even his most well-intentioned words.

She wondered what he dreamt of. She couldn't remember her own dreams these days; she could hardly imagine a wilder world than the one she found herself in now, even in rare moments of peace such as this. She thought she remembered imagining going to Ireland, or Spain, or the Amazon – but that was before she'd found the Island. Or the Island had found her. Now, she could hardly recall what it was like, before. She wondered if she would have missed it if she could.

She doubted it. Otherwise, how could she have forgotten it?

Ben began to stir. She smiled, keeping still, though she longed to stroke his cheek with the palm of her hand. She knew he favored waking up on his own terms, undisturbed – though she suspected this was more of a habit than a preference. If it wasn't for her, he would be completely on his own: no one to wake up to, and no one to kiss good-night. "Morning, starshine," she whispered softly, her voice still scratchy with drowsiness, and smiled.

He looked over at her, appearing for a brief moment to be surprised, as if he hadn't quite expected to see her there. As if he expected her to have disappeared during the night. He said nothing at first, simply letting his eyes roam over her face, her shoulders, her bare arm above the covers. Then, "What woke you up so early?"

Unfazed by his bluntness, she shrugged slightly, suppressing a yawn. "I don't know. Certainly not the blinding morning sunlight," she added, glancing around pointedly at the curtains. He might have preferred the darkness, but she loved almost nothing more than light. "Anyway, maybe I didn't wake up early. Maybe you slept in."

He chuckled softly, a little of the gravity he'd woken with leaving his expression (though not his eyes) as he sat up next to her. "I doubt that."

She tilted her head, edging a little closer to him. "And are you always so sure of yourself?"

"Always," he said, figuring a little white lie never hurt anyone, and kissed her softly.

"Do you have to go out today?" she asked, a hint of pleading in her tone.

He sighed, and she saw it in the shadows around his eyes that something was troubling him. "Of course. A Workman's work is never done," he answered, and the corners of his mouth turned down a little bitterly.

"What about the others?" she pressed, almost wishing she didn't know about them. Almost. "Has Richard finally figured out a plan?"

His face went carefully expressionless. Aha, she thought. She'd hit the nail on the head. "Somewhat," he replied easily, as if they were chatting about the weather, and she knew whatever he wasn't telling her wasn't good. "He's still got a few kinks to work out."

"It's going to be dangerous, isn't it?"

His eyes flicked away from her for a moment, and she knew he was understating the situation. "It's a possibility, yes."

She frowned. "Well?"

He adopted a look of innocence, as though he had no idea what she was asking. "Well what?"

"What is it?"

"I told you, it's not finished yet."

"Then tell me what you know so far!"

Irritated now, he threw off the covers and got out of bed, dressing without so much as sparing her a glance. "It doesn't matter anyway, Annie. You won't need to do anything, just follow my directions when the time comes."

She leaned forward, drawing the covers up to cover her chest unconsciously. "I want to know what's going on! Maybe I can help. Maybe–"

"You can't help, Annie," he interrupted, his voice harsh with that unmistakable _don't question it_ tone of his. "Just trust me, you don't need to know." Fully dressed now, he turned at last, striding back across the room to look down at her searchingly. "You _do_ trust me, don't you, Annie?"

He had backed her into a corner, and she hated it. She knew him well enough to know when he was manipulating her (sometimes, anyway) – just as he knew her well enough to know it didn't matter. She would still give in; he would still win. "You know I do."

His expression shifted a little, and she thought she saw real sincerity there now. Whether he was acting or not, she believed him, and that was all that mattered. "I will keep you safe, Annie, _no matter what_," he said, his eyes intense. "I can't tell you what will happen, but I can at least promise you that much. I will never let anything happen to you." He kissed her again, briefly, and then he was out the door, leaving her alone in the shadowy room.

She bowed her head, sighing softly. Sometimes she wondered how she'd come to be here, on the Island – was it chance; was it fate? Or was it something else entirely? Sometimes she thought nothing good would come of it; after all, it was only a matter of time before the treaty between the Initiative and the Hostiles was broken – _again_ – and she was fairly sure she wouldn't want to be around when it happened. Not to mention Richard Alpert's apparently secret plan; she owed him her life for what he'd done for Ben all those years ago, but she'd never quite been able to trust him. The fact that Ben would not tell her what Richard was up to left her doubtful of his supposed good intentions, and she could only hope that whatever he was thinking of doing wouldn't be _too_ dangerous.

Rising, she dressed quickly, trying not to think of the future, trying to focus on the here and now. She reached for the cord on the curtains, yanking down till they pulled apart and filled the room with brilliant, cleansing morning light. She closed her eyes against the brightness, basking for a moment in its warmth.

Above her, the mobile spun and sparkled, the edges gleaming as sharp as the day the ballerina had been broken.


End file.
